by J. R. WRIGHT
“Mister Tom Hill, sir!” the porter announced.
“Mister Hill,” Swift nearly dashed to greet him. “It’s so good you decided to pay a visit to our humble establishment.”
Luke didn’t know how to take that last statement, but took the hand offered nonetheless. Then, before he could say anything, the man spoke again.
“It’s been a long trip for you, are you hungry, Mister Hill?”
Then, without letting Luke answer, he turned to the porter. “You can have the kitchen bring dinner now, Sam.”
“Yes, sir!” The porter closed the doors behind himself.
“Mister Hill, what do you think of our operation here?” he tossed his hands wide and turned toward the windows to one side. “Some of the buildings were here when we bought the place, but much of it we built ourselves, with new innovations.”
“It’s not what I expected,” Luke found his voice and said truthfully.
“What did you expect, Mister Hill? If I may ask?”
“Well, I guess I figured the five thousand steers I sold you would keep you in butcher beef for a goodly time. But I can see from the movements of animals down there…”
“Beeves, two thousand head a day, hogs five thousand, sheep three thousand,” Swift said, and chuckled. “And that’s why you’re here, Mister Hill. I need your beef. Good quality cattle are scarce.”
“Who do you sell all of it to?” Luke was shocked at the output.
“Of course we deliver around town to meat shops and restaurants, but most of it is shipped by rail in special ice cars to eastern markets like New York City, among others.”
“Well I can see now I needn’t worry any longer about producing too much beef for you.” Luke smiled broadly.
“How many head do you produce for market each year, Mister Hill?” Swift asked, then waited with a keen interest for the answer.
“Well now that’s my business, Mister Swift,” Luke said, feeling crowded for information this man had no business knowing. “I will say, though, if prices hold, I may ship you ten thousand head this fall. That is if you have no objection to some being heifers.”
“Not at all,” Swift laughed to ease the tension in the room. “Heifer meat is just as red. Once the hide is off, the sex of the critter is no longer of importance.”
“Then count on at least that many come November. They’ll weigh in, the same as those from last year.”
“So I take it from your guarded response, I’ll not get all of your beeves, Mister Hill?”
“I have contracts to supply cattle to many Indian tribes on the western plains.”
“I see,” Swift said while smoothing his beard. “That’s a shame…”
“What’s a shame?” Luke asked.
“What the government is doing to those people, crowding them up in small areas so they can no longer provide for themselves. I grew up among Indians as a child, Mister Hill. And I knew many of them personally. For the most part, I feel they’re good people.”
No doubt Swift was a clever man, or he wouldn’t have gotten where he was this early in life. But in this case, Luke felt he was telling the truth when it came to what he said about the Indians. “I agree.”
“Good! I like you, Hill,” Swift said cheerfully. “How long will you be staying in our fine city? Of course, you’ll be my guest for as long as you wish to stay.”
“Well, once we’re done here today, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to catch another train. One going further east.”
“Trains going east aren’t hard to catch here, there’s one leaving near every hour. Where at east?”
“Hannisville, New York. I’ve got an old friend there. And I figured since I’m this close, I may as well drop by for a visit.”
“I don’t believe I know where in New York that is.” Swift walked to a nearby map on the wall. “We ship to most everywhere in New York State, but I don’t recall that one.” Then, almost immediately, he put his finger on it. “There it is, just north of New York City a short train ride. Let me write down how you can best get there. Only about five thousand people in Hannisville, by the looks of it…” Swift went to his desk, took pen to hand and jotted down the various train connections Luke would need to make to get there, and handed the list over.
“Much obliged!” Luke took the paper and studied it briefly before folding it and shoving it into his pocket.
The meal was carried in on large platters and arranged carefully on a nearby table. It was steaks, of course, because this day Gustavus Swift was entertaining a cattle rancher, and they were still sizzling in the cast iron skillets they were cooked in. Had he been a hog farmer, the main course may have been different, Luke surmised.
The two of them talked throughout the meal. Mostly it was question and answer, Swift receiving the answers, broadening his knowledge of potential beef supplies in the west. Than a few hours later, after a tour of the slaughterhouse, all the way through to the very large ice room, the same driver as before delivered him back to Union Station. And by nightfall, Luke was on another train destined for New York.
Even though his stay in Chicago was brief, he was glad he had come. At least now he had a fair idea of how much beef was required to feed the nation. It was certainly a whole lot more than he, along with every other rancher, ever hoped to produce, and that was what mattered most to him.
CHAPTER THIRTY
After seven train changes, traveling through more states than he cared to remember, Luke arrived in Hannisville late in the afternoon, on the fourth day since leaving Chicago. Had he known before starting out it was such a hassle, he never would have come. Surly both he and Anne Budd could have survived nicely without ever meeting up in person. And now that he was here, he wondered how he should go about finding her? He had no address, just a box number. He could inquire at the post office, but figured it was a little late in the day for that.
Carpet bag in hand, walking up what looked like the main street, Luke spotted a hotel a ways ahead. Weaving in and out among pedestrians, all taking note of his strange attire, he hastened his steps toward it. Reaching the hotel, he noticed to his pleasant surprise, the post office was near directly across the street from it.
Heading into the old, but elegant looking hotel, he asked for a room for the night. And seeing as he needed it, he inquired about a bath.
“There’s a tub in the room, sir,” the smallish, balding clerk said, looking over oval glasses low on his nose. “Hot and cold running water, on tap.”
“Since when?”
“Since the hotel put up the water tower, back in sixty-seven.”
“Where’s the hot water come from?”
“A boiler in the basement. We had that before, for heat in the hotel. Now it’s used for both. Works real well.”
“Where’s that water tower you’re talking about?”
“Out back,” the clerk said and turned the register for Luke to sign. “You from the west?”
“Cheyenne, Wyoming. Why do you ask?”
“We don’t see many people dressed in buckskins around here.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do.” Luke took the key and headed for the stairs. Once in the room, he went directly to the claw footed porcelain tub and turned the strange handles that allowed water to flow into it. “I’ll be damned,” he said aloud, then went to the window and peered out. There was the water tower alright, a large tank on steel legs, a windmill beside it, with an elevated pump to keep it filled. “Ingenious!” He pulled a pencil from his pocket, located a tablet in his bag, and began sketching everything he saw, even the way the water and drain pipes were brought into the room. He would have a sit down talk with Kenny Hardy about this when he got home. Now that he understood the workings of it, he wanted running water in his hotel in Cheyenne. No doubt Willie, if he had a mind to, could charge extra for rooms that had this unique improvement.
With the tub sufficiently filled, Luke checked the temperature, then stripped off the buckskins and eased into it.
Not only had it been a week without a bath, he noted and reached for the soap from a little tray on the side of the tub, it had been that since he’d been in a bed. And he was looking forward to that, as well.
The following morning he was out the door of the hotel at daybreak in search of a place for breakfast. With no supper the night before, he was starved. A block further up the street, he came to a little eatery surprisingly open at this hour. Even though he saw no one inside, he went in and seated his self at a table.
“Range is not quite hot enough yet for cooking,” a woman’s voice came from somewhere in the back. “I do have coffee, though, if you’re interested.”
“That would be greatly appreciated, ma’am.”
“Oh...!”
Luke heard the voice much closer and looked up from his hands on the table to see what had startled her.
“Oh, my goodness!” the rather attractive, young redhead stood wide-eyed a short distance away. “For an instant there I thought you were Wild Bill. But I can see now you’re much better lookin’.” She giggled.
“Hickok?”
“I saw him year before last in the city. He was in a play put on by Bill Cody called Scouts of the Plains. I was as close to him as I am to you right now.” She sat down a cup and poured the steaming coffee from a blue porcelain pot into it. “Of course, I’ve read all the dime novels.”
By city he assumed she meant New York City, where Kenny Hardy was from. His train hadn’t gone through there the way Swift had routed him. Luke knew of Hickok and had even seen his picture printed in Harper’s Magazine, which the Empire Hotel subscribed to and left in the lobby for patrons to read.
“You’re not from here are you, Mister?”
“Cheyenne…”
“Oh my God, you’re from Cheyenne, Wyoming?” she screeched. “What’s it like there? I just love hearing about the west. I’m going someday, God willing.”
“Pretty much the same as here, only newer,” Luke said and saw the disappointment come over her face.
“You mean they don’t have gun fights in the street… Indians… and that stuff, like they say in the dime novels?”
“If you’re speaking of drunken shootouts and back alley killings, I guess there’s still some of that, now and again, in the older part of town. But mostly what you see is a lot like here, otherwise. But, there are still Indians. Lots of them. Both in and out of town.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be Indians I’d go to see.” She walked away disappointed.
Once she’d gone, Luke ran a hand over his face and hair. Being sized up as Hickok didn’t sit well with him. He hadn’t done anything with his hair or beard since White Bird had died. She was the one that always kept him trimmed up like Bordeaux. Now, he thought maybe a barber ought to be visited before meeting up with that Anne Budd.
“Stove’s hot!” the redhead yelled from the kitchen, then appeared back at the table with the pot again to refill his cup. “We got fresh eggs and bacon?” she suggested.
“Switch that bacon out for beefsteak, and we have a deal,” Luke returned.
“I’ve got fresh biscuits in the oven. I’ll bring some of those.” She disappeared again.
“Is there a barber nearby?”
“There are two!” she shouted from the kitchen, pans rattling. “One’s a block east, the other about three blocks south! The one south is the better one! The other is colored!”
Once Luke had eaten the gristly steak, which he figured must have come from the flank of a bony, old Longhorn cow, he headed off to find the barber. Turning east at the corner, he arrived just as the two colored barbers were opening for the day. One look at him and they both began to laugh.
Luke didn’t take offense, however, but rather removed his hat and stepped up into the chair, unamused.
“Just a trim sir?” the younger of the two said, and they began laughing all over again, slapping knees as they did. “Shave and a haircut?” the older one added.
Then, spotting a picture of Abraham Lincoln on the wall, Luke pointed. “Give me that!”
“Well, that’s Mister Lincoln, sir! You sure you want to look like him?” the older one asked, almost reverently.
With his sandy hair, Luke knew he would never look like Lincoln, anyway. But, if the man insisted: “Leave the hair longer, then, and take more off the beard.”
“Yes, sir!” the older one seemed pleased with that, and seriously went to work with scissors and comb.
When finished, Luke got a look at his self in the mirror and couldn’t have been more pleased. It was as if White Bird had done it herself. The hair was about shoulder length, the way he liked it, the beard short and neatly shaved all around. “Excellent!” he ran a hand over his face.
This brought a smile to the older barber, who then applied a flowery tonic to the shaved areas and removed the apron with a quick snap of the cloth. “Next!” he then said, even though there were no other customers in the shop. This caused the two barbers to have another good laugh.
Luke dug into his pocket and handed over a five dollar gold piece. “Keep the change,” he said.
“Now that ain’t right,” the older barber protested. “There’s no cut and shave worth five dollars, no matter…”
“You’re right, there ain’t,” Luke agreed. “The difference is for the lift you gave to my morning. I was down when I came in here, now I seem to be feeling just fine.”
“Well, in that case, thank you, sir!” The two laughed again and followed him out. “Hear now mister, you come again when you’re feeling low down and shaggy?”
“Count on it.” Luke reinstalled the dusty hat and walked away.
Back at the hotel, Luke dressed into a clean white shirt and his charcoal pinstriped three piece suit, the one Sarah had made, tucked the pant legs into moccasin boots, dawned his dusty old hat, and left the room again.
Across the street at the post office he waited his turn behind five others at the single window open at this hour. When it became his turn, he asked the man: “I’m looking for a woman named Anne Budd. Her husband’s name is Harry. I know she has a postal box here, but what I need is her home address.”
The clerk looked at him blankly, and then said, “It’s against regulations to give out that information, even if I knew, which I don’t.”
“Well then, would you know her if you saw her?”
“I would. She comes in every morning at nine, without fail. That’s the latest the day’s mail will be up in the boxes.”
With that information, Luke looked up to a wall clock and saw it was eight forty. “Can you tell me what she looks like, then…?”
“No, sir. That’s not allowed, either.”
“Well, then how do you propose I find her? If you can’t tell me what I need to know, and I don’t have a clue what she looks like…”
“You could write her a letter, telling where you’ll be in town. I can see to it that it’s in her box by nine.”
“I don’t have paper or…”
With that, the clerk reached below the counter and came up with a pre-stamped envelope and a single page of paper. “That’ll be fifteen cents.”
Luke obligingly paid the man, then followed his finger toward a nearby counter, where a pen and ink were available. Moving to it, he scribbled a quick note, inserted it into the envelope, and properly addressed it, complete with the return address, as if it had come from the Tea Cup. He then got back in line to make sure the same clerk did with it as promised. Once certain that was done, Luke made his way back across the street to the hotel, where he sat on a bench out front of it, to wait and watch.
Right off he noticed only a few of those who came and went at the post office were females, and of those it was difficult to see the faces. Some wore bonnets and others wore large hats that shaded their features. But even so, with all the delivery wagon and carriage traffic on the street, he only got glimpses of who came and went. Finally disgusted with it all, he made his way back across the street with the intenti
on of waiting there. As he arrived, however, he noticed a woman had paused in a narrow alleyway next to the post office to read a letter. Then suddenly she turned and looked passed where he was, to the hotel. She seemed quite distraught, almost frightened. She was very beautiful, though, in her long brown dress and hair up under a small lacy hat to match. Then, for a moment, she turned away again as if undecided before moving on down the alley. Luke knew this must be the Anne Budd he searched for, and followed after her.
She didn’t go far, however, only to a shadowy spot where she put her face into her hands against a red brick wall. It appeared to Luke she was crying. Gently he approached and when within five feet, he said the only thing that was in his heart now. Actually, he had been suspicious for some time… And then, as if not absolutely certain, he said, “Breanne?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The sound of his voice startled her. Even though she knew it instantly, having not heard it for thirty-five years, except for in her dreams, it was paralyzing. Slowly she lifted her face and turned toward him. Then, with a rush of vigor that could have moved mountains, she dashed into his arms.
“Luke…” Her face buried into his neck, then after a time came up to find his lips. “Oh, Luke… Oh, Luke… Oh, Luke… Where have you been?” She threw her head back to look at him. “You are still the handsome man…” And then the tears came in a flood.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, shedding tears of his own.
“I haven’t known long…. Only since Sarah died,” she still found it hard to say. “But, there’s no time for that now. Come!” She took his hand and tugged, as she may have when last they were together, so long ago. Once back into the shadows, she stood on her tip toes and kissed him again. Then the guilt came, and she dropped away and hung her head in shame.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
